


Everyone’s Got an Origin Story

by lifeaftermeteor



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Galaxy Garrison, Gen, Humor, Matt & Shiro are Roommates, Matt Holt & Shiro Friendship, Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 08:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18205709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeaftermeteor/pseuds/lifeaftermeteor
Summary: Walking back to the barracks one evening, Fate calls. First Year Cadet Shirogane deals with the fall-out and gains some notoriety.





	Everyone’s Got an Origin Story

**Author's Note:**

> Original idea previously shared [on Tumblr](https://cosmic-dust-vld.tumblr.com/post/182432978757/shiros-call-sign). I was musing to [Remsyk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remsyk) a while back about how Shiro became ‘Shiro’ and it got me thinking about call signs, specifically that I’ve come to learn over the last few years that call signs usually originate from (1) bad puns, (2) reference to some key personality trait, or (3) an embarrassing event that was henceforth immortalized by your colleagues. And if that was the case… then how did Shiro become 'Shiro'...?

The day had finally started to fade, the desert sun dipping toward the horizon and painting the sky overhead in vibrant reds.  Matt smiled and sighed.  Another glorious day spent kicking around in the dirt with their heads in the clouds and far, far beyond.  He wouldn’t have it any other way...for the time being at least. 

Just one among a small gaggle of orange-breasted cadets, he made his way across the Garrison complex.  Construction and refurbishment had pushed classrooms and drill sites further apart, which necessitated an above-ground movement between the two locales.  This meant rather pleasant walks back to the barracks at the end of the day, so long as you managed to avoid both heat stroke and any local fauna while trekking from one side of the complex to the other. 

 _Speaking of…_ Matt glanced over his shoulder and—as he suspected—found his roommate trailing several yards behind them, lost in his own head.  “Come on Takashi,” he called out, spinning on his heel to walk backwards several paces as they crossed before construction scaffolding.  He watched his roommate jump out of his skin as he was startled from his reverie.  “Would be poor form if I let you get mauled by coyotes while on-base because you got separated from the herd.”  He shot the other cadet a wide grin before pivoting back around. 

But then from overhead, there was a shout and a clatter...and then the thick sound of splatter behind them.  Matt and the other cadets drew up short and whirled at the commotion. What they saw shocked them into silence.   

Takashi stood frozen mid-stride, covered head to toe in white paint. 

The silence stretched for several impossibly long seconds.   

And then the laughter started, as if exploding from a cannon. 

Matt bit his lip against the same response, a nervous fluttering rising up from his belly, and strode back to his roommate.  He chanced a glance overhead as he moved and could see figures shifting amidst the scaffolding but something told him not to bother waiting to see if they’d come down to assist.  He drew up short just a few inches outside of the spreading pool of white.  The industrial container that had held what had to have been at least half a dozen gallons of paint lay toppled on its side not far from Takashi himself, who seemed to have finally regained some control over his limbs and was warily inspecting the damage.   

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Takashi hissed, his fingers wiping and scraping paint from his face.  He grimaced and flicked his hands toward their still-laughing compatriots, which only made them laugh harder as they stumbled further away and out of range. 

“You’re lucky you’re not concussed.  That container doesn’t look light…” 

If his roommate was relieved, he didn’t show it.  Rather, it seemed to Matt that he had started to shake with some mounting energy, judging by the way the rivulets of paint trembled as they fell off of him.  “I need a new uniform,” he growled.  

Matt caught the look in his eye and recognized it right away: his roommate was on the warpath.  He pressed his lips into a thin line and, eyes wide behind his glasses, nodded emphatically.  “Let’s, uh...let’s get you to the Exchange then.” 

*****

The Galaxy Garrison’s Base Exchange was attached to the same structure as the barracks.  Although it was the same general direction they were heading, it was also rather far. 

…which meant they had to walk from one end of the Garrison’s complex to the other. 

…which meant there were plenty of witnesses. 

Takashi clung to the fire in his chest, fueled by embarrassment and a singular focus: get to the BX and get a new uniform.  Anything beyond that didn’t matter, or so he told himself as he clenched his teeth so hard he thought he might split a molar.  He ignored the intrigued stares and the bewildered laughter; he _especially_ ignored the snide remarks from other cadets.  He wanted nothing more than to break into a sprint, to flee from the unwanted attention as quickly as possible, but somehow knew that would only make it worse. 

So he kept his back straight, his head held high, and _walked_.   

Matt’s presence beside him helped.  At least he knew he wasn’t alone.  He wasn’t sure if he would have had the tenacity to do the walk alone.   

Meanwhile, on his skin and in his hair and in all the fine fibers of his uniform, the white paint dried in the lingering desert heat, grew tacky, and started to chip.  Cracks formed at his joints and pieces began to flake away.  By the time the two of them got to the BX, he was trailing clouds of paint dust in his wake.  Other patrons gave him a wide berth, for which he was glad: it gave him immediate access to the wide-eyed young woman staffing the help desk at the entrance.   

Takashi felt his cheeks burn as he walked up to the counter and said only, “I need assistance.” 

*****

 **From:** PCIU [filter-this@ggorbust.com]  
**To:** Cadets-1YR-Distro_ALL

 **Subject:** Investigation 

A murder occurred on Garrison grounds yesterday.  Crime scene evidence attached.  All cadets with knowledge of the incident should come forward. 

V/R

Paint Can Investigative Unit 

[image description: massive white spatter next to the construction site up the hill, two perfectly preserved footprints in the middle of said spatter, and a trail of white footprints leading away down toward the barracks] 

*****

“Did you see the email that went out to the first years?” 

“Yeah, the cadet I’m mentoring forwarded it.  Good stuff.” 

Lieutenant Yutani looked up from the papers she was grading in the Officer’s Lounge.  She had heard of the incident by the construction site and like others on the teaching staff had been relieved that no one had been hurt...and highly amused at the results.  Usually cadets managed to survive a year before they earned a call sign but from what she had seen of his simulation rankings, nothing was _usual_ with this particular cadet.  Seemed fitting somehow that he would be the first out of the gate to earn some well-deserved if perhaps mortifying notoriety.   

“What’s his name?” she asked, turning her eyes back to the papers before her. 

“The collective hasn’t decided yet,” one of the other lieutenants told her.  “‘Bucket’ and ‘Paint Can’ are leading thus far, much to the kid’s chagrin I’m sure.” 

Yutani smirked.  Looking up again, she said, “I meant his _actual_ name.” 

“Oh!  Oh.  Uh...Shirogane?” The man glanced at his companion, who nodded.  “Yeah, Shirogane.” 

Setting her red pen down, she crossed her arms on the desk and leaned forward toward them, grinning with devilish delight.  “‘Shirogane’ is written with two characters in Japanese.  The first of which, ‘shiro,’ on its own just means ‘white.’”  She paused and let that information sink in, knowing damn well that more people than just her conversation partners were listening.  Then—feigning ignorance—she asked, “What was the color of the paint, again?”

The quiet that followed practically _hummed_ around them.  And then from the far corner and behind his book, they heard Commander Holt order, “Make it so!”

**Author's Note:**

> The first of several one-shots for my ["Garrison Days" collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/vld_garrison_days). I hope you enjoyed it - there's more to come!


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